


with urgency, but not with haste

by theMightyPen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (which are super important), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Multi, Platonic Relationships, kinda? there is a lot of tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers comes back to New York and finds that life goes on, even when next to nothing makes sense. A part of him supposes it's all part of being a superhero. A part of him still doesn't know what to make of there being a Starbucks on every corner, considering most of the baristas can't make a decent cup of coffee (or a mug of tea) to save their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve would be lying if he said he isn’t overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings at least some of the time.

For all that human nature seems not to have changed in 70 years, so much else has; the buildings are taller, sleeker; the cars faster, brighter, quieter; the clothes are just….less, really.

After D.C. (and the subsequent unsuccessful four month search for Bucky), he figures he needs to be around something familiar, something that doesn't make him feel like the time capsule he is.

But even finding an apartment in his old neighborhood hadn’t helped any. None of his previous neighbors are still living and his old building has been torn down due to structural instability.

Brooklyn isn’t his anymore and he can find only the barest traces of the places scrawny, sickly Steve Rogers once got beaten up in. The movie theater he and Bucky had always gone to has been renovated. Dale’s Diner closed nearly 30 years ago. His mother’s favorite church is still here, but it’s sad and old and worn looking, with the grime of the city marring the once red brick to a brown color. Even the little park near his old place is different; a colorful, plastic play-set has replaced the old wooden one, but Steve had never been able to play on the playground on the first place, anyways.

Nat tries to help, but she’s a creature of change, a chameleon; there’s no one place she really calls home. Home is more of a collection of people for her, which is why she is so insistent on spending all of her down time with him or Clint or Sam, sometimes Bruce and Pepper too. She’s not sentimental and never has been. The way Steve’s lips twist when he sees yet another old brownstone being demolished is alien to her, just as he’s fairly certain he’ll never be able to understand how easily she can slip into whatever disguise is required of her.

Clint, well, he’s at home wherever Nat is, and Steve can’t really blame him. They’re a pair, the two of them, deadly and broken and sharp around the edges. It makes sense that they fit together, whether that means they’re sprawled on poor Sam’s couch or bunked down in one of the many rooms in the Avengers’ Tower.

Tony doesn’t quite understand, because he’s never known a life without technology and has no interest in finding out what it’s like. The tower is his home and he’s comfortable in it in a way the rest of them never will be; it’s an extension of himself, a great whirring tribute to the brainpower of the infamous Iron Man.

Thor is much the same; Asgard, from what Steve can tell, is hundreds, if not thousands of years more advanced than they are. The comforts of brick and leaky heaters and stairs that rattle when you walk up them are lost on an alien prince who has only ever known luxury and technology beyond Steve’s imagination.

Sam and Bruce, though, seem to understand.

Sam, especially, can relate to Steve’s sense of familiar and alien all at once; he, like Steve, left a piece of himself in a war, in a country far away, and no amount of well-trodden paths or recognizable landmarks can bring that piece back.

Bruce too, seems homesick occasionally, though Steve is sure his is an even more difficult brand to cope with. Bruce’s home is unchanged, mere minutes away, and he can’t (or won’t, they’re not quite sure) go back.

But Steve’s never been prone to melancholy, so he tries to appreciate the things in this new New York that don’t make him long so fiercely for the old one. The subway has scarcely changed at all, and despite Tony and Nat’s quips about him being qualified for a senior pass, he enjoys using it, is gratified to see that some of the stops are the same as they are in his memory.

If Steve searches hard enough, he can find buildings that aren’t all glass and chrome. It’s those buildings he prefers most of all, which leads him to Grand Central, to the hotels lining Central Park. It’s…nice, to rediscover the city again, though he can’t quite bring himself to explore Brooklyn the same way. He would rather leave his memories as they are, instead of seeing the stark reality of neon lights and a McDonald’s on every corner.

But there are places he likes. Places he feels comfortable in, places where he’s not swarmed with people asking for his autograph, or berating him with questions about S.H.I.E.L.D. The most annoying part of new New York is the sudden appearance of chain restaurants seemingly on every block; he'd kill for an authentic Italian meal outside of Manhattan, and has yet to find anywhere that can make him coffee or tea that doesn't taste distinctly, well...awful. 

(Even when there hadn't been much money, he and Bucky had always had enough change for a hot cup of Joe, always making sure to save enough to bring Steve's mom as much Earl Grey as they could fit into their thermoses. 70 odd years later, Steve can see his mother's warm smile when they presented her with the tea, and can almost feel the ghost of the kisses she rained on his face, calling him her sweet boy.) 

"Here." Tony says one day, almost hitting Steve in the face with a map of Manhattan as he carelessly tosses it at him. "I had JARVIS look up coffee shops that are at least as old as you are. Go wild, Capsicle, and quit hating on Starbucks. You're giving my interns a complex when you cringe every time they so much as mention a venti latte."

"I didn't realize my opinions on coffee effected your interns." Steve says, looking the map over. There were at least 30 places circled, with 12 of them within a few blocks of the Avengers Tower. "Give JARVIS my thanks for sparing me from one more watered down cappuccino."

"You're quite welcome, Captain Rogers." Comes the AI's congenial voice. 

"He's never that happy to do a favor for me." Tony grumbles. 

"That's because your favors usually include me hacking into data servers, sir." JARVIS says politely.

Steve snorts; he's learned to pick his battles with Tony and knows if Pepper (saint among women that she was) couldn't talk Stark out of doing something, there was no way in Hell that he could.

"Well, go on." Tony says, flapping his hands in Steve's direction. "If you find a place that'll serve me a Spanish Coffee before 10 AM, report back immediately."

* * *

 

It takes two or three days of searching (and no luck on Stark's request for a coffee-place for alcoholics) before he finally finds a place that suits him. It's tucked into the corner of 48th and Broadway, a tiny hole-in-the-wall of a shop, aptly titled: “Bean There”.

From the first time he walks in, there's an air of old New York he hasn't been able to find. Almost like it's been waiting for him.

The tables and chairs are wood, the mugs are all unique (some even chipped), and the coffee bean grinder sounds almost like a freight train when it whirrs to life on the counter.

But the coffee is rich and fresh and reminds him of snowy days in Brooklyn, when Bucky used to dump his coat and three sweaters on him just to keep Steve from shuddering on the walk back from school.

Safe to say, the place is perfect.

Most of his team-members are amused by his enthusiasm for his new-found coffee shop, and Nat seems happy that he's found something he enjoys, but none of them seem too eager to trek down to a place that's almost as old as he is for a relatively cheap cup of coffee.

"No alcohol, no sale." Tony tells him. "Plus, I kinda have a deal with Pepper about eating breakfast with her. She's getting strict about this whole 'having at least one meal a day' thing."

"Coffee's not really my thing." Natasha tells him. "I am Russian, after all. It's pretty much vodka or nothing."

"It's on the floor level? With only three windows?" Clint asks, shuddering. "Not exactly an archer's paradise, Cap."

Thor had been off-planet at the moment and therefore unavailable for comment.

Bruce shifts, looking slightly disappointed. "I'd actually really love to come." He admits. "You said they have tea?"

Steve nods, curious. "Not a big coffee drinker?"

Bruce's mouth curves up in a half-smile. "Caffeine and the...Other Guy don't always get along. But green tea I'll drink by the boatload. It's perfect after a meditation session."

Steve makes a mental note to bring Bruce back some green tea on his next trip to Bean There. "I'll keep that in mind."

Sam though, agrees to check out Steve's new hangout.

“This place is at least as old as you are.” His friend quips when he meets Steve there for brunch one day. “Seriously, man, what’s wrong with Starbucks?”

“I'm going to pretend you didn't ask that." Steve says back, smirking. “When did you say the shop opened, Maria?”

Maria is the granddaughter of the original owner, a kind, short and plump mother of three with dark hair streaked through with grey. The twinkle in her eye as she gives Sam another piece of coffee-cake reminds Steve of his own mother, and the gentle hand on his shoulder only reinforces the feeling.

“Oh, my Pop opened this place in ’40.” She says. “But back then, it was Joe’s Coffeeshop, which is hardly a name likely to draw customers in now-a-days. My son suggested the new name when he was just eight and it’s stuck.”

“Smart kid.” Sam says, smiling. “I’ll refrain from mentioning the competition, ma’am.”

“Bah, Starbucks is only competition if you like watered down espresso and fancy names that have nothing to do with drink sizes.” She says, waving her hands. “Poor Steven here is lucky to have found a place that actually puts coffee beans in their cups.”

Steve nods, laughing. “Yes ma’am, I most certainly am.”

* * *

 

And so it becomes his ritual, to spend his days off at Bean There. The place does fairly substantial business, which Steve attributes to the sudden interest from the younger set in all things “antique”, the distance from the nearest Starbucks, and how welcoming the place seems to be. (Admittedly, he may be a bit biased, considering Maria and her daughters pile him with as much coffee and baked goods as he can handle every time he walks in the door.)

But the people are really what keep him coming; Maria was the first friend he made, and then her daughters—Teresa and Anne—and next was her son, Joe (named for his grandfather, no matter how much his sisters tease him for being named, literally, for a cup of Joe.)

After that, it’s Mr. Lawrence, who is also just a little younger than Steve, for all that he looks old enough to be his grandfather. He always comes in for his morning coffee after his morning walk and read his morning paper. Always in that order, always at 8:30 on the dot.

“He’s been coming in here for years.” Teresa tells Steve. “His wife used to come with him; they’d act like college sweethearts, giggling over the comics and holding hands across the table. It would have been nauseating if it wasn’t so sweet.”

Steve looks over at the elderly man, who looks like he hasn’t smiled in years, who scowls at the pair of children who sit coloring two tables away from him. “And now?”

Teresa sighs. “She passed away a few years back. It was the only time he’s missed his morning coffee.”

Steve’s hand tightens on his mug and he decides right then and there to do something he never thought he would ever, ever do: pull a Tony Stark.

* * *

 

Two days later, he sits down across from the cantankerous-looking old man, offering a piece of coffee-cake as a peace offering.

“Can I help you, sonny?” The old man asks, face shuttered, suspicious.

“Only if you can tell me what to order besides just a plain coffee.” Steve says. “The girls are sweet and I can’t bear to tell them I’m a bit tired of the same old same old.”

The topic of coffee beans and which particular kind produces the richest, darkest brew seems to draw Mr. Lawrence out of his shell. The next day they work a crossword puzzle together; for all of his wrinkles, the old man is as sharp as a tack and twice as witty as any Stark Steve’s ever known—both Tony and Howard. Better yet is the fact that Mr. Lawrence—Andrew, he tells Steve one morning, when the seasons have changed and little snow flurries begin to appear outside the window, always Andrew, only one person has ever called me Andy—has no idea who Steve is.

Well, that’s not exactly true; Andrew Lawrence knows Steve Rogers. He knows that Steve served in the army, knows that he has a passion for drawing, that he once had a best friend name Bucky, and now has friends named Sam, Natasha, Maria, Clint, and Bruce. He knows that Steve likes his coffee with the barest hint of cream and two sugars, knows that Steve is a Yankees fan since the Brooklyn Dodgers are now the Los Angelus Dodgers, knows that sometimes Steve will grasp his chest like he’s out of breath even though he’s in perfect physical shape.

What Andrew Lawrence doesn’t know is that Steve Rogers is Captain America, and that gives Bean There a whole new layer of appeal.

Andrew is refreshing on his own, too. He’s just barely younger than Steve—or, younger than Steve would be, if he’d aged at the right time—and shares Steve’s confusion with some of the more recent modern advancements.

(Yes, both their passwords to everything are indeed, ‘password’. It’s much less complicated that way.)

He likes baseball, black and white movies, and old jazz music as well. They see a concert together, despite Tony’s ribbing about Steve officially becoming a card-carrying member of the AARP.

They finally discuss Mrs. Lawrence—Carolyn—at Christmas, when Steve notices Andrew turning towards melancholy even after three pieces of cake and two very strong cups of coffee.

“She was the light of my life.” Andrew says, softly. “I was never one for sentiment, but then she blazed into my father’s shoe repair shop one day and everything was different.”

_Steve thinks of brown pin curls, red lips, and a British accent demanding, “Will that be all, Captain Rogers?”_

“I know the feeling.” He says. “Is that how you met?”

Andrew nods. “March 19th, 1950. I can still remember the pair of shoes I was holding when she walked in…”

Love and heartbreak are human things. From the dawn of time, they’ve been the same. No matter how juxtaposed this new, New York is, that at least, is the same. So he gives Andrew’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and tells him what he can of Peggy.

(He tells him about Bucky, too, but that’s not quite the same.)

And mornings, between Maria’s coffee, Anne’s pastries, and Andrew’s stories of Woodstock and Vietnam and Carolyn (most of all, Carolyn), quickly become his favorite time of day.

* * *

 

It’s not until he drops by the shop in the afternoon, when Teresa is off at her job, Anne in school, and Andrew probably at home for the day, that he realizes afternoon coffee is a popular activity. The shop is buzzing with activity, with a much younger crowd than the morning rush, and Steve is worried that someone might recognize him, and pulls his hat down further to cover his eyes.

It is nice, though, to see the place so lively. Nearly every table is full with laughing, smiling, college-age kids.

(Steve makes a mental note to drag Sam in here the next time he complains about never having time for dates.)

The tables are also filled with steaming mugs of coffee, which makes him purse his lips a little.

Personally, Steve believes the afternoon lends itself better to tea than coffee.

Maria snorts at his request. “Lucky for you we have one other patron who shares your beliefs.” She nods to the table nearest the window. “The good doctor won’t touch even my best coffee, but put a mug of Earl Grey in front of her and she’ll stay for hours.”

Steve looks over to the sole table with one occupant. The doctor Maria had nodded towards is a woman, with long dark hair, pale skin, and posture like a Renaissance painting; curved and elegant and somehow effortlessly eye-catching.

Wordlessly, he accepts his tea from a smirking Maria. He knows she’s likely matchmaking already, but that’s not quite what the woman at the window is inspiring in him; oh, she’s beautiful, that’s for sure, but her pose and concentration on the book before her demands to be drawn in a way that almost makes his fingers itch.

So he settles into the last vacant table, pulling his drawing pad out from his bag, and begins to sketch her, looking up as subtly as he can from time to time.

Apparently, he’s not been subtle enough, because just as he begins to draw the curve of her left shoulder, there’s the sound of a throat being cleared to his right and he freezes.

“I didn’t realize I was sitting for a portrait.” A warm voice says. “If I’d known, I would have worn my best dress.”

Blushing hard enough that Steve is sure he might spontaneously combust, he looks up.

Blue eyes stare back at him, crinkled in a smile. “You know, if this was any other coffee-shop, I’d have thought you were a creep, but I know for a fact that Maria only lets the best customers use the chipped mugs.”

He coughs a laugh (or laughs a cough, Steve isn’t quite sure), scratching the back of his head. “I apologize, ma’am, but the lighting—”

She grins wider, patting his arm. “Ma’am? I’m scarcely older than you, Mr. Starving Artist.”

Actually, she’s quite a bit younger, but Steve thinks it might be better not to mention that right now. “I was raised to be polite, ma’am.”

Her smile dims a little. “So was I. But you’ll have to forgive me; I can’t seem to stomach calling anyone ‘sir’ these days.”

Steve frowns at that; anything but happiness doesn’t seem to fit her features. So he tries a tentative, “Maria said you were the only other tea drinker in here.”

The smile is back again, white teeth nearly blinding, framed by pink lips.

(She really is an artist’s dream, he thinks, and it makes him sad that he’s not anything more than appreciative of it.)

“Oolong is good for rainy days, like today.” She says. “But when Spring rolls around, I’ll have to badger Maria into finding some good white jasmine peach. There’s really nothing like it.”

He smiles, gratified to have brightened her mood. “I’m more partial to Earl Grey, myself. But a friend of mine drinks green tea by the boat-load.”

“Green tea has its time and place.” She agrees. “A coffee shop full of new age hipsters, however…”

Steve laughs, because of all of the slang he’s learned in his time out of the ice, the concept of the ‘hipster culture’ has been the most amusing by far. People who want to be a part of the past. The sensation is familiar enough.

“So,” she says, turning her mug around on the table, “does the tea-enthusiast slash impromptu artist have a name?”

Out of habit, he holds his hand out to her. “Steve.”

She smiles again, offering her own small, pale, neatly-manicured hand to him in return. “Betty. Doctor Betty Ross, actually.”

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve apparently has a habit of meeting pretty dark-haired women in coffee-shops ;) enjoy!
> 
> (shout-out to Niamh for helping tailor this doozy of a chapter)

* * *

 

“Betty,” he says, the third time they run into each other, her sipping oolong again and him with his customary Earl Grey. “I assume it’s short for Elizabeth?”

She nods, settling down into her chair. “Family name.”

“That seems a bit old fashioned.”

“Says the man who just pulled out my chair for me to sit down,” she shoots back, grinning all the while. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Betty, as it turns out, loves Bean There as much as he does, though she seems to prefer to spend her afternoons in the shop rather than her mornings, as he and Andrew do. “I go to work too early to stop in for a coffee.” She explains over checkers one day. “But after work, after being alone in a lab for hours, sometimes I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment. So I come here.”

“No roommates?” Steve asks. He hasn’t got any either, but most of his nights are spent with Sam and Natasha and an Avenger or three.

“With the hours I keep? Not a chance,” Betty says, collecting three of his black pieces in one swoop. Apparently the life of a doctor of bio-engineering doesn’t lend itself to regular sleeping hours.

So he starts to add her into his evenings too; they’re new friends, but friends all the same, so they’ll occasionally grab dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place or hot dogs at a stand. But afternoon tea remains their primary catch up spot.

Betty is smart, passionate, and kind. She reminds him of Pepper, a little, but of Peggy too, and that bumps her high up in his estimation in many ways.

It’s not long before she becomes the first female friend he’s made outside of being Captain America, a feat in and of itself.

 

* * *

Life slowly starts to work its way into a routine; coffee in the mornings with Mr. Lawrence, workouts with Sam or Nat before lunch, catching up on some sort of pop culture thing he’s missed after lunch (everyone keeps adding to the list which is nearly five pages long now), tea in the afternoons with Betty, and then some sort of distraction for the night—recently, it’s been tracking any mentions of the Winter Soldier online, but no one else seems to think it very healthy.

Tony has two fully functional gyms within the Avengers Tower. He justifies this particular ridiculousness by saying they’re open to all employees, but Pepper gives the real reason: Tony Stark, as egotistical as he may be, is a little gun-shy about working out in the general vicinity of the God of Thunder, a super soldier, and two of the world’s deadliest assassins.

Personally, Steve thinks Tony’s reluctance is ridiculous; having spent the first half of his life clocking in well under 110 pounds and not being able to run without fear of an asthma attack, he’d have killed to have Tony’s 5’8 frame.

“Don’t complain too much, or you’ll change his mind,” Clint grunts at him in the middle of one of their workouts. “God knows we don’t need him strutting around talking about how much stronger his suit makes him than the rest of us fleshy mortals.”

“And don’t you forget it, Legolas,” comes Tony’s disembodied voice through the building-wide PA system.

Sam snorts a laugh, nearly dropping a weight on Steve’s foot in his amusement.

Steve just rolls his eyes—he wonders if Tony would appreciate being told how much his father’s son he truly is and concludes probably not at all—and continues his reps on the punching bag. (It’s been reinforced by both Stark and Asgardian technology after Thor had punched it too forcefully one day and sent it flying across the room.)

“So, Steve,” Nat’s voice interrupts, startling him out of his smooth repetition of punches, “who’s the brunette you had tea with yesterday?”

He turns to give her a withering look, unsurprised by the smirk that greets him.

“Whoa, whoa!” Sam says, completely abandoning the weights to join the rather unwelcome conversation. “Steve, you had a date? And you didn’t tell me?”

“’Tasha, leave him alone,” Clint says, but it sounds rather half-hearted. “When the man wants to talk about his love life, he will. Which, if he was me, he never would.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, throwing something at the archer without her eyes leaving Steve—Clint blocks it without any effort, of course.

“How did you even find me?” Steve asks. “You’ve never been to the coffee shop with me before—” Only one person has, and he turns accusing eyes on Sam. “Sam.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see you try to withhold information from Natasha,” Sam says, shrugging. “She has this look that makes me feel like she could take me apart with a rubber band and a paperclip…”

“I’d really only need the paperclip,” Natasha says, smirk only growing. “And don’t think I’m above using one on you, Steven.”

“Not the full name,” Clint mutters. “You’re really in trouble now, Cap.”

“She’s just a friend,” Steve says. “You’d all really like her, actually.”

“And why haven’t we met her?” Natasha asks.

Steve is quiet for a moment, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He intentionally says it under his breath, but Clint is particularly good at reading lips and Natasha’s not hard of hearing in any capacity, so it’s only Sam who says, “What? I couldn’t hear you.”

“He’s under the impression she doesn’t know he’s Captain America,” Clint explains, looking skeptical.

“Which means she either lives under a rock or is very, very stupid.”

Steve bristles a little at that; it’s not as if he goes around with his shield strapped to his back and his uniform on, and Betty is certainly not stupid. “She’s a doctor in bio-engineering, Natasha. Hardly an idiot.”

“A doctor in bio-engineering?” Natasha asks, sounding less than bored for the first time. “How very interesting.”

“Told you, you shouldn’t have said anything,” Clint says sagely. “She’ll know everything there is to know about your friend before lunch tomorrow, mark my words.”

Privately, Steve doubts it’ll even take that long, but makes a mental note to ask Betty a bit more about herself at tea later, so as not to have to put up with too much of Nat’s smug color-coded file he knows is going to appear in his mailbox tomorrow. 

 

* * *

Three hours later, he settles his surprisingly tired muscles into his favorite chair at Bean There, stirring sugar into his tea as Betty eyes him with marked interest.

“Rough work out?” She asks wisely.

“Surprisingly, yes,” he admits. “I think my sparring partner was a little put out with me today.”

“I can hardly imagine anyone getting put out with you, Steve,” Betty says brightly. “I imagine it’d be like being angry with a puppy.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever been compared to a small, fluffy animal,” he tells her. “I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“Just like a puppy,” she laughs, “you don’t even realize the look you’re giving me.”

(He does, actually, because his mother had always caved when he looked at her like that and Bucky had gotten into many, many fights on account of that look. He knows exactly what look she’s talking about.)

Clearing his throat, he leans further back in the chair, thinking of Natasha’s impending (likely on-going, at this point) investigation of the woman across the table from him. “Where’d you get your doctorate?”

Smiling just a little at the abrupt change of subject, Betty answers. “Culver. What branch of the military were you in?”

And Steve freezes. He had assumed, of course, that Betty, like Andrew, like Maria, like nearly everyone in shop, didn’t know he was Captain America. Hell, he’d just spent fifteen minutes convincing Sam, Nat, and Clint of the very same thing.

Seemingly realizing she’s startled him, Betty smiles. “My father is a general, Steve.” She says gently. “I recognize military training when I see it.”

Relaxing a little, Steve shrugs. “I was in the army, once. It seems like a lifetime ago.”

(It was, a part of him whispers.)

“Hmm,” Betty says. “Personally, I think you’re much too nice to be a soldier.”

Steve chuckles, thinking of Hydra and the rogue agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. “Well, I wasn’t always a soldier.”

“Obviously, Steve,” she says, rolling her eyes and leaning her chin on her hand. “And I wasn’t always a scientist. I think my father would have rather me been a soldier, though. Or at least have had me married to one.”

Steve’s eyes meet hers. “Not in the cards for you?”

“Soldiers were never really my type,” she admits. “No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” he says, and there isn’t. Betty is a friend, nothing more. “A soldier’s life is a hard one. Being a soldier’s girl…isn’t much easier.”

Betty’s hand stills mid-stir. Her eyes—blue and wide and so unlike Peggy’s—flick up to his. “Was there someone? _Is_ there someone?”

Steve shifts, thinking of the Peggy of his memories—colorful, vibrant, young, so strong, so brave—compared to the Peggy in the hospital bed now—tired, grey, but still so brave, so strong, even when her memory fails her.

“There was,” he says. “Is. Maybe it’s both.”

“Sounds complicated,” Betty says. She gets up abruptly, motioning him for him to sit as she wanders over to the counter, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of red wine and Maria’s famous chocolate chip muffins.

(Steve supposes he should be grateful for the serum, because if he was anyone else, the amount of treats he’s consumed in the past months should have given him quite the pot belly. It’s not like he needs to give Nat or Sam anything new to tease him about.)

Betty fills a glass and hands both it and the muffin out to him. “Drink a little, eat a little, and then talk a little. If you want.”

He does want to, surprisingly, and even though the wine has little to no effect on him, its taste is pleasant on his tongue, the cozy warmth of the coffee shop relaxing him further. “Her name is Peggy,” he starts, “and she’s my best girl.”

And he ends up telling her everything (well, not quite everything, he’s not sure how rational and practical Betty Ross would handle the idea of him surviving being frozen in a block of ice for nearly 70 years), but everything that matters, at least. She giggles at his story about Peggy punching the crap out of the men who didn’t take her seriously, gives his arm a hearty whack when he talks about the incident with Private Lorriane, tears up when he talks about his and Peggy’s first (and last) kiss.

“What’s stopping you from being with her now?” Betty asks, because she’s kind and optimistic and _Betty_ , and she wants the best for everyone. “If this is some ridiculous thing where you think you’re not good enough for her, Steve, I swear—”

“No, it’s not that,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She moved on, Betty. I was gone too long and she moved on.”

Betty sighs, taking a deep sip of her wine, setting her glass down with a clunk. Mumbling under her breath, Steve just barely catches, “Maybe she could teach me how to do that.”

Steve gives her a long look. “Do you have a story for me, Doctor Ross?”

She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “A long and complicated one. I don’t want to burden you with—”

He pushes the wine back towards her, nodding at the bottle. “Pour another glass. Then spill.”

“Steve, really—”

“Elizabeth,” he interjects; using people’s full names tends to have an effect, and he’s correct in assuming Betty will respond the same way, sitting up straighter in her chair, her eyes widening. “You let me talk. Now it’s your turn.”

“No one calls me Elizabeth,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “My father used to, but I hated it, growing up. It was such a mouthful.”

He holds up his hands in a supplicating gesture. “Fine, fine, no Elizabeth. What about Lizzie?”

She rolls her eyes. “Only you could get away with that, Steve.”

“Lizzie it is, then. Now,” he pours more wine, smiling a little, “you owe me a story.”

Betty, like him, has lost a lot of people. But not to death: to their stubbornness, to distance. Steve can’t imagine it hurts any less. Her father was the first hurt, but her anger at him overrides his absence. They haven’t spoken in years, she explains, and that’s unlikely to change any time soon.

“We never saw eye-to-eye to begin with,” she explains between large, angry sips of wine, “but then after I met—” Betty stops suddenly, setting her wine glass down.

Steve waits a beat, trying to give her time to finish, but the silence drags on, heavy and tense. “Met who, Lizzie?” He tries. His attempt to brighten the mood works, because the corners of her mouth turn up even as she shakes her head at him.

“You’re going to stick with that, then?” She asks.

Steve shrugs, giving her his most winning, charming Captain America smile.

She sighs, running a hand through her short hair. “It’s a long story. Are you sure you’ve got the time?”

He spreads his hands wide. “I haven’t got anywhere better to be.”

Betty had been in love.

Not just in love, she explains, but one of those storybook romances; boy meets girl in laboratory, girl falls for boy the first time he rattles off scientific equations without looking up, boy falls for girl when she corrects said equations without batting an eye, girl uses debate skills to convince boy to go out on a date despite the fact that he was a grad assistant and she was eight years younger.

(Boy is so nervous to kiss girl for the first time that he misses and has to kiss girl four more times to get her to stop laughing at him.)

“Well, maybe not so storybook after all,” she admits, crinkling her nose. “But once he got over the age difference, it was like a dream. I’d never fallen so hard for anyone before. Neither had he.”

“And your father didn’t approve?” Steve asks, a little perplexed. So far, the only unhappy ending he could see coming would be the university disapproving of the relationship between a grad assistant and an undergrad, but that seems too mundane a reason for Betty to carry such sadness in the quirk of her lips.

Betty snorts. “That would be an understatement. He hated—he hated him. My father always wanted me to marry someone like him; military, tall, hot-headed.” She takes another sip of wine. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why my mother left. She wasn’t anymore the perfect housewife than I would have been. And God knows B—my boyfriend wasn’t the strapping, strong, macho man my father wanted me to be with.”

“There’s something to be said for other kinds of strengths,” Steve says. “Just because someone can knock someone on their ass or bench-press their own body weight isn’t a guarantee that they’re a good person. Strength can come from the inside too.” He smiles a little, thinking of his former scrawny self. “Or from sheer stubbornness, as I’ve been told many times.”

She smiles back at him. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

He ducks his head; Bucky would like Betty too, he’s sure of it. Well, the Bucky he remembers would. The Winter Soldier is a stranger with Bucky’s face, an enigma with a body count miles long. He still needed to find him.

“Steve?” Betty asks gently, interrupting his reverie. “I can finish the story later, if you’ve got something on your mind.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he assures her. “Just thinking of somebody who you’d get along with.”

“Maybe I’ll meet them someday.”

Steve shrugs, hiding his frown behind another sip of wine; Bucky, when he did find him, wouldn’t be the Bucky he remembered. (Steve very carefully avoids the word ‘if’. ‘If’ wasn’t an option when it comes to Buck.) He couldn’t guarantee that the post-Winter Soldier would even like coffee or tea or be capable of sitting at a table and laugh with friends like a normal person.

But he can’t tell Betty that, so he just smiles and says, “Maybe.”

She gives his hand a squeeze, both of them stewing in the silence for a little while longer, lost in their own respective thoughts.

Steve clears his throat a few minutes later. “I don’t think that story was quite finished, Dr. Ross.”

Betty sighs. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re annoyingly perceptive?”

“Occasionally.”

She snorts at that, before her lips draw down into a slight frown. “He may not have been a soldier, but the research he was doing…it may have well have been a battle. Endless nights spent in the lab, coming so close to a break-through so many times…I thought he or I or everyone involved were going to have some sort of psychological breakdown.”

He senses a note of secrecy there; while he’s no scientist, he’s learned enough to know he could handle more than basic scientific jargon, and this is the ultimate bare bones minimum. Something had happened, Steve thinks, something not good.

“I’m guessing he finally succeeded?” He asks.

Betty nods, tucking in on herself. “He did. No one thought it could be done; it was the ultimate fairy tale—well, as much as we get into fairy tales in the scientific community. No one was supposed to be able to recreate—” She cuts herself off, suddenly wary.

To say alarm bells are ringing in his head would be an understatement. “Recreate what, exactly?”

She bites her lip. “Steve…I can’t tell you. I would tell you. I’ve only known you for weeks and I know I could trust you with the enormity of this. And believe me, it is enormous. But…it’s not my story to tell. And it’s not just my safety at stake.”

Steve is quiet for a moment, thinking. He knows Natasha will likely uncover whatever this enormous, dark secret is (if she hasn’t already, knowing the speed of the Stark computer systems) and he knows if he pressed Betty enough, she would likely tell him. He can tell when something is eating a person up inside—he’s seen it in himself, in Sam, in Nat, in Tony, Clint, Thor, and Bruce, especially Bruce—and he suspects it might to Betty a world of good to tell him the truth behind it all.

But finding it out from Natasha or pushing Betty to tell him now would feel wrong and dirty and tarnished, like prying a pearl from an oyster before it was ready. If she could tell him, she would. Maybe someday, she will. Steve Rogers is nothing if not patient.

“So, I assume the fairy tale went south,” he finally says, acutely aware of the relief in her eyes as he moves on past the tense subject.

“That,” Betty says, “would be the understatement of the century. It wasn’t…nothing turned out like we hoped. And he…he went through a lot. He wasn’t the same person at the end of it all. Or at least that’s what he insisted; that he’d changed too much, that it wasn’t safe, that…” Her voice trails off in a sigh. “It didn’t make me love him any less.”

Suddenly, the mysterious science experiment pales in comparison to the palpable pain displayed by the woman in front of him.

“Is he still in the city?” Steve asks. Manhattan alone is vast, not to mention the combined populations of the surrounding boroughs, but he thinks he could find Betty’s mystery guy if she asked him to. He’d have to try.

But she shakes her head, lips turned down in a soft frown. “I doubt it. He was here, a few months back, but I…I haven’t heard from him in years, now. Part of that’s my father’s doing—he’s never been afraid to throw his weight around to keep me from doing something he disapproves of—but I…I don’t even know if he’s alright or alive or if he even thinks about me—”

On impulse, Steve catches one of her hands in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure he does.”

Betty wipes at her eyes weakly with one hand, giving his fingers a squeeze with the other.

Maybe after he finds Bucky, he’ll add Betty’s missing scientist to his list.

 

* * *

 In her life, Natasha Romanov has been many things. Assassin, asset, soldier, spy, hacker, lover, to name a few.

Being a friend is something she’s still adjusting to.

But friends—at least the sort of friend she is—keep their friends from their own stupidity, like befriending random women in coffee shops when not all of the missing Hydra agents have been accounted for. Steve may be strong, smart, and more stubborn than a mule, but he was still too good, too trusting.

Natasha doesn’t have that problem.

Finding information on Steve’s new doctor friend had been even easier than she’d supposed; all she’d had to do was hack into the city’s traffic control, scan the footage from the cameras nearest Steve’s hole in the wall coffee-shop, look for a tall brunette in scrubs, and put the best image of her face through Stark Industry’s facial recognition system.

A file pops up within seconds, with part of it encrypted.

As if the word CLASSIFIED has ever stopped Natasha.

“Doctor Elizabeth ‘Betty’ Ross,” she reads. “Let’s find out what skeletons you have in your closet.”

The first page is mostly benign details; daughter of a US Army General, only child, divorced parents, studied at Culver where she earned both of her doctorates—one in biomedical science, the other in bioengineering—and that’s where the file begins to get interesting.

Because Doctor Ross doesn’t have so much as a skeleton in her closet as she does a very large, very green complication.

“God, Rogers,” Natasha mutters. “You really know how to pick them.”

 

* * *

 Steve’s somehow managed to convince Mr. Lawrence—who quickly insists on Andrew, once he sees who their pretty lunch companion is—to meet him and Betty at Bean There for lunch. He suspects the elderly man doesn’t get out much besides his morning coffee and he knows Betty’s friends outside of work are in the single digits, so why not handle two birds with one stone? Andrew brightens under Betty’s unwavering, kind attention and she laughs herself silly when he tells her he wishes his doctor were as half as pretty as she was.

Congratulating himself on a job well done, Steve lets himself look around the coffee shop, idly noting the clusters of people here and there, wondering if he could persuade Sam to come by for another visit—

The bell hanging over the front door jangles discordantly as someone pushes it open rather forcefully.

Betty and Andrew, too absorbed in their conversation about the sorry state of the Museum of Natural History’s latest exhibit, miss this sudden noise entirely.

Steve, on the other hand, finds himself craning in his seat a little, curious about who could possibly be so desperate for a cup of coffee at 12:45. It’s a dark-haired girl—well, woman, he corrects himself, wanting to do her justice even in the confines of his own head—looking flustered and harried as she stands in front of the counter, reading the menu.

She almost reminds him of Peggy, in a way, but then she scowls at the menu and the resemblance fades. Peggy always had an aura of professionalism around her, a mask of politeness even when she was on the verge of losing her temper.

This woman’s expressions flutter across her face at the drop of a hat—interest, slight irritation, exasperation—they’re all plainly visible, as if she was speaking each emotion aloud.

“God, she’s going to kill me,” he hears her mutter. “Not even in the city for a full 24 hours and I’m already running late and just had to pick the oldest coffee-shop in existence…”

Maria is nowhere to be seen behind the counter; it’s been a slow day and Steve knows she prefers to sneak her once-a-day cigarette when none of her children are around to scold her for it.

A quick glance back at Betty tells him she’s noticed his distraction; grinning slightly, she nods in the direction of the other woman. “Something caught your eye, Steve?”

Andrew apparently noticed as well, and nudges Steve none-too-gently with his elbow. “A girl always likes a polite man. Might as well keep her company before Maria gets back. You might even offer to buy her coffee if it takes too long, or—”

“And I thought Natasha was bad,” he mumbles under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, “look, Betty, Andrew, I’m not about to go harass some poor woman who’s already late for something—”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Steve. It’s coffee, not a marriage proposal. Live a little.”

Steve makes a mental note then and there to never, ever allow Betty Ross and Natasha Romanoff to meet.

After a few more seconds of prodding (Betty) and one verbal dressing down about the death of chivalry in this day and age (Andrew), Steve finds himself standing and crossing the room to stand beside the dark-haired woman, who is now rapidly texting on her phone.

Sensing his approach, she moves to step aside. “Might as well go around me, bub, I have no idea what I want and can’t even begin to decipher some of these drink names—what in Merlin’s saggy left testicle is a ‘Moby Dick Latte’?”

Steve’s glad Bucky and now Tony’s less than clean vocabularies have prepared him not to flinch, though it’s safe to say he’s never heard ‘Merlin’s saggy left testicle’ used as an exclamation before.

“The Moby Dick Latte is a latte with white chocolate, irish cream, and hazelnut,” he explains, trying not to smile as the woman’s eyebrows arch upwards. “It’s a little sweet for my taste, but not bad overall.”

She gawks at him for a moment. “…there’s no way in hell you work here.”

Steve shrugs. “Who’s to say I don’t?”

“Okay, no,” she says, sounding very sure of herself. “Guys like that,” and she points to one of the more regular of Maria’s customers, a weedy, pale boy with thick rimmed glasses and an almost permanent beanie on his head, “work in places like this. Guys like you,” and now she gestures to him, seemingly focusing on his shoulders, “work in Planet Fitness or Xtreme Juice or maybe even Playgirl.”

“Playgirl?” He asks uncertainly—he’s heard of Playboy, thanks to Tony and Clint, and wonders if this possibly could be the same thing, but for women instead of about them.

“Yeah, Playgirl,” she eyes him speculatively. “Though I bet Abercrombie would take you, if you were having a rough week.”

“Abercrombie.” He repeats. “That’s a store, right?”

“Wow, handsome and smart,” she says. “You’re just God’s gift to women, aren’t you?”

Feeling an oddly familiar mix of intimidation and attraction, Steve scratches the back of his head, wishing he’d stayed at his customary table instead. “No ma’am, just a kid from Brooklyn.”

Her eyes—which are a shade of blue he’s fairly certain he’s never seen before—actually soften a little at that, as does her ramrod, defiant posture. “Well, Mr. Kid-From-Brooklyn,” she says, voice leaning more towards teasing than derision, “care to tell me what is good on this menu that’s not named after a literary monster?”

He does, actually, and by the time they’ve gone through the menu and weeded out her preferences— _not cold, who would ever voluntarily drink the sludge that is iced coffee? And don’t even get her started on chai tea—chai literally means tea, we’re all practically walking Moon Moon’s with our tea tea’s_ —Maria is back, watching them with a look Steve has seen many a time on Nat’s face.

“What can I get you, Steve?” Maria asks. “And what can I get your friend here?” “

"Two mochas, Maria,” Steve says politely, ignoring the pointed look his new friend gives him. “On me.”

“Only if you tell me your real name,” the woman says. “There’s no way it’s actually Steve. It has to be Rolf or Juan-Pablo or LaPelt or something.”

He laughs, just a little. “No ma’am. Just Steve. Steven, if you want the whole thing.”

“If you say so, Just Steve,” she sticks out her hand and he’s unsurprised by the strong grip. “I’m Darcy.”

Darcy, he thinks. It suits her.

Maria presents them with two steaming mugs not 3 minutes later, shooting Steve a wink as she passes them across the counter. “On the house.”

Steve can scarcely open his mouth to protest before Darcy has taken a huge sip of hers, sighing despite the fact that the coffee has to be hot enough to scorch her tongue.

“Sweet, sweet caffeine,” she croons. “This is really good, Miss…um…Coffee Lady, but I could really use this in a to-go cup before my boss turns on the locator chip on my phone and—”

Darcy gestures a bit too wildly and dumps the rest of her coffee on Steve.

Without the serum, he probably would have been looking at least minor burns; as it is, his favorite shirt’s just been ruined and he’s going to have to think of a way to explain this to Natasha (and more worryingly, Tony).

And Steve finds he can’t give a damn.

“Shit!” Darcy says. “Shit, I am so sorry—”

And then her phone starts to ring and she looks up at him, mortification plain on her face. Steve just smiles. He hands Maria his mug and motions for her to pour it into a to-go cup, while Darcy talks faster than even he can process to someone on the phone.

“Here,” he says when she’s finally hung up. “Take mine.”

“What? No, no, I just could have turned you into a burn victim, I’m not taking your coffee—”

“Ah, I really don’t drink much coffee after noon,” Steve assures her. “Please. It sounds like you might need some more caffeine to deal with your boss.”

A grin quirks up the corners of her mouth. “Well…thanks, Just Steve.”

“You’re welcome, Darcy.”

She takes the cup, looks at it for a long moment, before passing it back to him.

Steve feels the happiness drain out of him for a minute before confusion replaces it as he realizes she’s digging around her monstrosity of a purse for something. “What are you…?”

“I’m only taking this cup if your digits are attached to it, Just Steve,” she explains. “Otherwise, I’ll never be able to pay you back for the coffee bath you just took.”

And he knows he’s blushing, damn it all, and quickly scrawls his number across the side, avoiding her eyes as he passes the cup back to her.

“And an actual Brooklyn area code,” Darcy says. “You really are Just Steve from Brooklyn, huh?”

And before he can answer, she turns on her heel, pausing at the door to wave a jaunty good-bye.

“Well,” comes Betty’s voice through the haze of disbelief that he might have accidentally just had a semi-date without Natasha’s knowledge, “that went well.”

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has adventures in texting, best friend hunting, and miscommunications regarding both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SO SORRY for the long interval between updates, but life got in the way! Hopefully this chapter will make up for it, and updates should be more regular from here on out. Enjoy!!

* * *

 

Steve’s certain he would have walked out of Bean There without the cup of green tea he’d gotten for Bruce if Betty hadn’t all but thrown it at him, laughing at his stunned and then sheepish expression.

“You’ve been telling me for days that your friend could use some relaxing tea, Steve,” she says, patting his shoulder. “Don’t forget which way is up just because a pretty girl smiled at you.”

“You smile at me all the time and I still manage to function,” Steve quips back.

She rolls her eyes at him, shooing him from the shop. “Just don’t crash your motorcycle because you’re too busy daydreaming. Andrew will never forgive you if you don’t show up for coffee Monday morning.”

Giving her a jaunty salute and a warm smile, he steps out into the sunshine, wondering vaguely if he walked quickly enough if he could catch up to pretty Darcy after all.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t been able to catch up with her, but that was alright considering she’d texted him not two days later, just making sure that ‘Just Steve’ had given her the right number. He had, a fact that he personally was infinitely grateful for, and something that seemed to please Darcy as well.

_< Pretty sure I could have looked up in the nearest model yellow pages, under ‘buff Brooklyn men’ if you’d gotten it wrong ;P  >_

Steve wonders if this counts as flirting.

He wonders how long he can keep Natasha from finding out.

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, it’s not Natasha who puts the pieces together.

Mercifully, it’s not Tony either.

Bruce had really enjoyed the cup of green tea Steve had brought him, so Steve makes it a point to keep bringing them, despite Bruce’s very weak protests that Steve doesn’t need to do that, that he doesn’t want to cause a fuss.

Steve had merely given the shorter man the look that Bucky had long ago described as _are you fucking kidding me_ and that was that.

About a week after the first cup of zen green tea (and meeting Darcy, not that Steve’s been counting the days, of course), it’s Bruce who watches him with an bemused expression as Steve nearly pounces on his phone when it goes off, indicating another text from her.

“Someone’s a little jumpy,” Bruce comments.

Steve offers him a sheepish smile. “Any chance you’ll believe it’s just a text from Sam?”

Bruce smirks a little, jotting something down in one of his many notebooks. “If that’s a text from Sam, I’m a concert pianist.”

Steve barks a laugh at that and Bruce’s smile grows; he wishes people outside of the Avengers team wouldn’t flinch back from him. Bruce is a man like any other, despite his “big green problem”, as Tony puts it, and Steve’s never met someone so deserving of kindness, or someone less likely to seek it out. Bruce’s biggest flaw isn’t his anger management, but his penchant for self-flagellation and self-loathing that no amount of pep talks from Tony or specially ordered lunches sent from Pepper can ease.

“Alright, it’s not from Sam,” Steve admits, settling down into one of the empty stools. “I met a girl at the coffee-house the other day.”

Bruce sets his notebook down, turning his full attention on Steve. No one can listen as well as Bruce; Nat can, if she really wants to, but her mind is usually miles away, constantly in a whir of planning and preparing for any number of scenarios that could arise. Tony tends to interject every few sentences, either with questions or snide comments. Clint’s not a bad listener, but Steve always feels vaguely guilty when he gets long-winded with the archer, considering he knows how hard it is to focus it was when relying on lip-reading for at least half of the time, much like he used to have to do before the serum. Sam is a close second to Bruce, but he hadn’t been there when the sky opened up in the city, and that was something that tended to bond people together.

So he ends up spilling his guts about Darcy—they haven’t met in person since she dumped her coffee on him in Bean There, but they’ve texted almost every day since then—and how completely lost he is about dating in the modern world. A cell phone he can work, an iPod is easy as pie, but asking a girl out on a date?

“It’s not like I had much practice before, either,” Steve admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Girls weren’t exactly beating down my door when I was all of 100 pounds and a stiff breeze could knock me over…dames were Bucky’s area of expertise, not mine.”

Bruce nods, thinking a moment. “What do you think Bucky would tell you to do?”

Steve smiles a little, trying to ignore the lump in his throat that always appears when he thinks about Buck. “Probably to stop being such a goddamn punk and ask her out already.”

Bruce snorts at that. “I have to say, I’d agree with him.”

Steve looks at him then, a little sharper; there’s a note of something in Bruce’s voice, something he can’t quite work out. “What about you?”

“Me?” Bruce asks, sounding incredulous now, that little note of something gone. “The Other Guy isn’t much of a catch, Steve.”

Privately, Steve wants to remind Bruce that he’s only ‘the Other Guy’ roughly 15% of the time, but something tells him that comment won’t go over particularly well. “Well, what about before?”

Bruce shakes his head. “I was never good with women either. No one wants to date the guy who knows more about getting doctorates than he does dates. But, uh…” He pauses, the strange note back in his voice. “There was someone. Once.”

Steve wonders if they’re all carrying ghosts around with them, as if having lost someone important to them is a requirement to becoming an Avenger.

He’s about to ask Bruce to tell him more, because God knows the man could use an outlet if his ghosts are anything like Steve’s, but his phone buzzes again, this time with a text from Tony instead of Darcy.

_< Cap, need 2 see you ASAP. Might be time for ur Where’s Waldo: Amnesic Assassin Edition to continue.  >_

Steve all but rockets to his feet, almost knocking a set of beakers over in his haste. “Sorry, Bruce, Tony says—he might have—Bucky—”

“Steve, go,” Bruce says. “I understand.”

Steve nods, somehow blindly making his way to the door before Bruce calls his name again, making him turn.

“About your coffee-shop girl,” Bruce says, something sad and bittersweet in his voice again, “you should ask her out. I, uh…have a lot of regrets from…before. Wasting time is one of them.”

 

* * *

 

Tony is practically vibrating with tension by the time Steve reaches him, eyes and hands moving from one screen to the other, shifting data and formulas and pictures in their wake. “’Bout time you made it, Capsicle.”

Steve ignores the lazy jab, coming to stand beside him at the impressive screen. It’s not really there, in a physical sense, which doesn’t confuse him as much as it amazes him. Contrary to popular belief, technology doesn’t reduce him to a caveman, banging away at a phone like he’s never seen such a thing before, but it does frighten him, just a little. How easy it is, to pull up someone’s entire life on a computer screen. How the touch of a button can level cities, how at any given moment someone could be taking your picture with you none the wiser; now that’s a horror story.

“You mentioned something about—”

“There’s been a sighting of the Winter Soldier,” Tony interrupts, pulling a video to the forefront.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, aware of the narrowing of Tony’s eyes. “Someone’s seen Bucky.”

Tony doesn’t approve of Steve’s dogged determination to find Bucky—in his mind, James Buchanan Barnes died from the fall from the train, all of those years ago, and what’s left of him is the Winter Soldier, an enemy to be avoided. Steve guesses Howard didn’t share too much about the Howling Commandos with Tony and if he did, it might have done more harm than good. The father-son relationship between the Starks had been strained on the best of days, apparently, and downright hostile on the worst.

“The Winter Soldier,” Tony continues on, ignoring the way Steve’s hands clench at the use of Bucky’s infamous moniker, “was spotted in Germany, approximately 6 hours ago. In goddamn Berlin, of all places. Maybe he’s shopping for lederhosen?”

“Germany?” For a moment, Steve’s baffled; of all of the places to go, of all of the places in the world Bucky could wander to, Germany is the least pleasant in terms of memories.

But, Steve supposes, that’s not really fair; that’s where his post-serum self had found Bucky, where the Howling Commandos had formed, where Peggy had walked towards him with a dress as red as a sunset and lips to match…

“Steve?” Tony’s voice jolts him back to the present. “You with me here?”

“Sorry. Yeah.”

“Anyway, your _buddy_ here,” the video starts, grainy and obviously shot on an older phone, “caught the attention of a few kids. I’m guessing the cannon he calls an arm probably interested them, though it could have easily been his hair—I guess super assassins don’t really have barbers?”

Steve fixes Tony with a look. Tony holds up his hands, looking decidedly un-innocent.

“Just a general question, Capsicle, no need to get your boxer briefs in a twist. But luckily for the kiddos, Tin Soldier over there didn’t notice them before they posted the video and scarpered off. So now we have his last known location, assuming he really didn’t notice that he was being followed by the German Hardy Boys.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Steve asks, not taking his eyes from the screen—it’s blurry, but there’s no denying the sleek silver arm, the powerful walk—still tinged with a sort of swagger, something that no amount of serum or brainwashing could take away—

Tony frowns, looking sincere in a way that tends to bode unwell for someone. “Because I may not think the guy’s worth the damn technology that’s been seared onto him, but you do, Steve. And despite what the media—and most people, come to think of it—will tell you, I do, in fact, have a heart.” He points to the original arc reactor, still in the glass case Pepper had put it in. “See? Proof right there.”

Steve chuckles at that. “I trust Pepper’s judgment over most people’s.”

“You and me both, Cap,” Tony says, smiling slightly. “So tell me: which of my fleet of private jets will you be borrowing for your new German venture?”

 

* * *

 

He tries to talk them into letting him go alone—there’s no telling how Bucky might react to all of the Avengers appearing at once—but no one will agree to it, least of all Natasha.

“The last time you fought Yasha—” Steve gives her a curious look and she pauses for a minute, the Black Widow’s expressionless mask sliding over Nat’s features, “—the Winter Soldier, you almost drowned at the bottom of the Potomac. Forgive me for not being too eager to send you off by yourself.”

“He pulled me out of the water, Nat,” Steve says. “Bucky would never have let me drown.”

“Be that as it may,” Clint jumps in, twirling an arrow in his hands, “I’m with ‘Tasha. I don’t feel good about you heading into this alone. What if he’s regressed? What if he doesn’t remember you again?”

“I think it unwise for all of our number to join the Captain,” Thor cuts in, recently returned from…outer space, Steve supposes, odd as it seems. “If his friend is as confused as you say, corning him will only frighten him further. We do not want to give him cause to lash out, either at us or any other Midigardians present.”

“That rules me out, then,” Bruce adds. “The Other Guy isn’t going to be much use in…delicate situations.”

“Me as well,” Tony chimes in. “I’m still banned from most of Germany; too many counts of public indecency.”

There’s a burst of laughter at that, lowering the tension.

“So,” Sam says, offering Steve a very familiar smirk, “when do we start?”

 

* * *

 

They’re all pretty quiet on the plane ride over, Clint speaking quietly into the mic every now and then, Nat lounging in the seat next to his, Sam sleeping in the solitary bunk, and Steve trying to think of how to get Bucky to _listen_ to him, to just consider the possibility that he is James Buchanan Barnes, not a weapon, not the Winter Soldier—

“Did you read the file?” Natasha asks suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts.

“On Bucky?” Steve asks, a little confused.

She rolls her eyes, unfurling herself even more on the seat beside him. “No. I know you’ve read that one, Steve. Probably too much. I meant the file on Dr. Ross.”

He frowns at that. He still doesn’t feel right about invading Betty’s privacy like that; if anything had truly been a red flag, Natasha would have told him. “No, Nat. I haven’t.”

She gives him a look he can’t begin to decipher. “I think you should. It’s an…interesting read.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, leaning his head back on the seat before he realizes--

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, scrambling to pull his phone from his pocket. “Betty.”

She answers on the second ring, laughter bleeding through the speaker before he can get a word in. “I hope you didn’t really crash your motorcycle, Steve.”

“Still in one piece, I promise,” he says. “Something came up with...work.”

“That sounds suspicious,” she says and Steve rubs the back of his neck, hoping she won’t press him; he’s always been terrible at lying, ever since he was a little kid and his mother would question him about the shiners he and Bucky managed to accumulate every couple of weeks. “But I’m guessing ‘work’ is going to keep you from our tea break today?”

“Today and possibly for the next couple of weeks,” Steve says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call before--”

“Steve, honey, it’s not a big deal” she cuts in, smile clear in her voice. “No sour grapes over something coming up. I’ll pass the message on to Andrew.”

“Thanks, Betty.”

Nat eyes him, lips twisted in a way that so obviously expresses disapproval that Steve’s tempted to stick his tongue out at her.

“It is a pity you’re not here today, though,” Betty says, “I have a new partner for checkers who I think could beat even you.”

“Now that I’d have to see to believe,” Steve chuckles.

“I think that can be arranged,” she says, sounding more amused than seems necessary. “I’ve got to run before my tea gets any colder or I lose anymore of my black pieces, but check your phone in a bit, okay?”

“Will do.”

“And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You take care, okay? I doubt your...work is something safe and harmless like being an accountant.”

“I will. Enjoy the tea for me.”

He avoids Natasha’s eyes once he’s hung up, not wanting to rehash the conversation. He’s almost slid his phone back into his pocket when it buzzes again.

Opening the message, it reveals a picture of a playfully pouting Betty, all of her black checkers wiped from the board, while Darcy--he has to rub his eyes to make sure he’s not seeing things, but no, it’s her, it’s definitely Darcy--smirks at the camera, holding a red piece between her fingers.

 _Consider this a challenge for when you get back_. The message below the picture reads. _Loser has to buy dinner, Just Steve._

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, all thoughts of checkers and dinner dates have to be put on hold because finding Bucky is as easy as it was the first time; that is to say, not easy at all.

In fact, it’s near impossible as Hell.

The kids who shot the video are easy to find, because apparently even in Germany they know who the Avengers are, and it’s not long before a good portion of the square has surrounded them, leaving Natasha hurrying to translate as kids prod at Sam’s wings, Clint’s bow, and Steve’s shield.

Natasha waves Steve over, smiling slightly as he disengages himself from his near army of fans. She’s standing with a bent old lady, who smiles warmly at Steve as he draws closer, greeting him with a kiss on both cheeks.

“There was a man staying in one of the older hotels,” Natasha says, eyes on the older woman as she speaks to Steve. “He gave no name and wore long sleeves and gloves every day, even though it’s the middle of summer.”

“Sounds about right,” Steve says. “Is he still here?”

The woman’s frown and shake of her head aren’t surprising, but it still stings, to have come so close and still be so far.

“We should still check out his room, Cap,” Clint says, having apparently disengaged himself from their army of small and enthusiastic fans. “There might be a hint as to where he’s going next or why he came here in the first place.”

Nat’s lips twist just slightly and Steve can read the unspoken thought there; Bucky will not have left any clues, she’s sure of it. He doubts it as well, if he’s being honest with himself.

But the thought--the hope, the _chance_ \--that there might be something, anything to give him any sort of insight into what Bucky was thinking…

And so they all allow themselves to be led to the old, small hotel Bucky had occupied, but along the way, Steve has to stop every couple of feet to stare in awe at the city around them. The last time he’d seen this place, it had been on one of the reels shown to his unit. Even in grainy black and white, the images had been horrifying. Hitler’s Third Reich had been at the height of its power. Soldiers had marched unimpeded down the streets, red and black bands on their arms, citizens cheering them on, unaware or uncaring of the atrocities being committed by their own officers and by HYDRA itself. He hadn’t know about HYDRA’s actions until Bucky, and hadn’t been made aware of Auschwitz and the other concentration camps until after his “delightful” 70 year nap. It had been enough to turn his stomach.

It’s clear now, though, that here, at least, his crashing into the ocean had meant something.

HYDRA had not won. Berlin is a place of peace and vitality and happiness, if the group of giggling children following them is any indicator.

Their shadows are gently shooed away by their guide, who ushers them into her hotel as gently as she can.

She says something in a very serious tone to Natasha, who gives the older woman’s hands a soft squeeze before turning to face Steve.

“She says he was very private,” Nat murmurs, “barely ate and she could hear him pacing at all hours of the night.”

Steve resists flinching, if just barely; that’s not Bucky at all, Bucky would have lived in the lobby, charming everyone who came through the door, laughing and teasing and flirting shamelessly with anyone who would let him--

“Steve,” Natasha says, giving his arm a soft shake, “come on.”

Sam falls into step behind them as Nat leads the way upstairs. Clint gives them a nod before turning back to the front doors; he doesn’t like enclosed spaces, never has, and not even Nat can persuade him to willingly go into a room without an ideal vantage point. Bucky’s room is at the end of the hall. Nothing on the outside marks it as different; no holes in the wood or scratches along the door frame. To the casual observer, any Tom, Dick, or Harry could be staying here.

Natasha pushes the door open. Sam’s hand comes to rest on Steve’s shoulder in the same moment, flexing once before they step in.

The inside gives no doubt as to who stayed here.

Dimly Steve is aware of Nat muttering a curse in Russian and Sam’s sudden intake of breath, but he can only focus on the sight before him.

The walls are covered, completely taken over by messy drawings; an outline of the Brooklyn Bridge is the most prominent on the far wall, but there are names and dates and vague faces scattered throughout, mimicking the inside of someone’s sketchbook.

Sam’s hand is back on his shoulder again, and Nat’s managed to wind her arm around his waist, but all Steve can see is Bucky’s familiar scrawl and his own name--Steve, Steven, Stevie, Steve--written in the corner, and til the end of the line coming diagonally from the ceiling, the name of their old street around the mirror five times, the names of Bucky’s sister and mother in a tangled, jumbled mess over a picture frame--

 _He remembers,_ Steve realizes.

“Is everything okay up here?” Clint calls, voice echoing down the hallway. “Nat, you didn’t answer--aw, hell.”

And Steve has to laugh, because if he doesn’t he may do something else, something stupid like cry or scream or pound his fist over his own name on the wall until the desperate scribbling is faded--

“Sam, go get some coffee and snacks,” Natasha murmurs, arm still slung around his waist, like she knows she’s the only thing keeping him on his feet, “it’s going to be a long night trying to decipher this.”

* * *

 

In the end, they aren’t able to decipher all of the messages, at least not fully.

First off, there’s a jumble of languages to sort through; Nat can handle the Russian, Steve is able to decipher most of the German and French, Clint and Sam are assigned the English, but there’s at least three languages none of them (not even Natasha) recognize.

Secondly, half of the things they do translate don’t make any sense. For some unknown reason, the word ‘lily’ appears half a dozen times, in five different languages. It’s not until 3 AM that Steve realizes what it means; Bucky’s last--and most serious--girlfriend had been named after the flower.

“He remembers the last dame he went out with but didn’t remember me,” Steve groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes, “typical Buck.”

“He always did have a way with women,” Nat says, startling him; Sam is on another coffee-run and poor Clint is slumped in the chair, snoring softly.

Steve gives her a curious look. “I didn’t know the Winter Soldier had a reputation for womanizing.”

Nat purses her lips, sitting down beside him. “He doesn’t. But no amount of brainwashing can keep James Barnes from flirting.”

He’s staring at her now, mind reeling; Nat’s talking about Bucky like she knows him, but that’s impossible. She’d been just as stunned by Bucky’s identity as he had, unless…

“I knew him as Yasha,” she says, as if she can hear his thoughts, “in the Red Room. I didn’t know he was your Bucky, Steve; at the time, he was the one good thing I had when I didn’t know who or what I was.”

“So the rumors about the Winter Soldier,” Steve starts, and she bumps her shoulder against his, offering him a wry expression despite the sadness in her eyes.

“I should probably mention that when I say ‘rumors’ I usually mean ‘highly classified facts.’”

Steve snorts at that. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Nat.”

She smiles, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I should have told you before now.”

“Wouldn’t have changed anything,” he says, shifting so her head can fit more comfortably into the crook of his neck, “all we can do now is try to figure out where he’s running to so hard.”

Steve can feel rather than see the eye-roll Nat gives then. “Have you really not figured it out yet?”

“Natasha--”

“I _swear_ , Steve, that serum worked on everything except your brain.”

“That’s not--” He frowns, thinking for a moment, “possible. I think.”

Natasha makes a ‘tch’ noise at that, before nodding towards the wall opposite them, nearly knocking him in the chin as she does so. “Where do you think someone who’s been brainwashed for the past 70 odd years would go if they suddenly regained their memories? Where would you go, Steve?”              

Bucky’s drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge seems a lot less circumstantial now. It couldn’t be this easy...could it?

“Home,” Steve says slowly. “I’d go home.”

* * *

  

So home they go, even if Steve can’t shake the distinct feeling of defeat during the entire flight.

The only thing buoying his admittedly terrible mood is the constant stream of texts from Darcy, who doesn’t know why exactly he’s been gone for a week, but does seem to know he needs a little pick-me-up without him saying anything at all.

 _So Just Steve_ , her latest text reads, _when are we going to have our epic checkers battle of doom? I’ll warn you now, I’m not afraid to fight dirty._

Steve can feel his ears heat up and furtively checks over his shoulder to make sure Nat’s not behind him; Darcy’s text is innocent, playful even, but he can already imagine the former assassin’s smirk if she caught wind of him being involved in any sort of flirtation.

He hesitates for a moment before answering. Steve wishes Bucky was here most days, but right now, he could use his best friend’s advice more than anything.

_Come on, Rogers, what would Bucky do?_

**Stop being such a goddamn punk and flirt with the girl, Stevie,** comes Bucky’s voice--or at least how he remembers it--in Steve’s head, **Christ, at this rate you’re going to die a 150 year old virgin and never give your sweet mother grandkids--**

Steve stifles a chuckle. Sam’s head pops up then, accompanied by a worried look. Clint, Nat, and Sam already think him close enough to cracking without knowing he’s taking imaginary advice from his missing, amnesiac best friend, so Steve keeps the reason for his amusement to himself and sets about typing out his response.

_**< I should get back tonight, so plan your strategy now. I’ll have you know you’re talking to the reigning Checkers Champ of Brooklyn.   >** _

_< Betty’s already taught me some of your tricks, Checkers Champ, so don’t get too cocky :P.  >_

_**< My tricks?  >** _

_< Yuuup. You up the charm and dimpled smiles whenever you’re two moves away from getting your first king. And you’re not afraid to use your bountiful biceps as a distraction.  >_

_**< ...bountiful biceps?  >** _

_< Her words, not mine. Maybe.  >_

_**< Not sure if I believe that.  >** _

_< ;) Weeeelllll, we might have agreed on the terminology. After Betty had two glasses of wine. And made sure Andrew had gone home. And made me lean close enough so no one else could hear her say it.   >_

Steve can’t keep from laughing at that particular image; poor Betty was a notorious lightweight and had likely been flushed for hours afterwards, for making such a comment. Darcy, he’s sure, didn’t blush at all. He thinks he’d like to see her blush, maybe even be the cause of it--

Another buzz of his phone distracts him.

_< So I’ll pencil our epic checkers battle of doom in for tomorrow night? Bean There at 6?  >_

_**< Loser buys dinner after?  >** _

_< Are you sure you’ll want to go on a date after I kick your butt, oh great Checkers Champ?  >_

_**< I’m pretty sure losing to you in checkers isn’t going to make me want to go on a date with you any less.  >** _

_< ...ok, that was too sweet for any sassy response, damn you. You’re on, Just Steve.  >_

_**< :)  >** _

His phone buzzes again a few minutes later and he smiles before picking it up, ready for another text from Darcy, but instead Sam’s name stares back at him.

_< So who’s the girl?  >_

He looks up to meet Sam’s eyes, who cocks an eyebrow at him before nodding back at the phone.

_**< What girl? And why are we texting when we’re sitting five feet from each other?  >** _

_< Don’t “what girl” me, Cap. No one grins at their phone like that unless a girl’s texting them, man. And we can have this conversation out loud if you want Natasha running an extensive background check…  >_

_**< Point taken. I’ll tell you when we land?  >** _

_< Deal. >_

_**< ...why are you looking at me like that?  >** _

_< My little Cap’s all grown up and askin’ people on dates!  >_

_**< Sam. I’m 98.  >** _

Sam’s only response is a string of emojis. Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn’t fight the grin pulling the corners of his mouth upwards.

Much as he misses Bucky, he doesn’t regret anything that led to him meeting Sam.

* * *

 

Unfortunately for Sam, there’s nearly four hours of debriefing to go through before Steve can even begin to think about telling him about Darcy.

Everyone seems a little alarmed by the idea of Bucky just appearing in Brooklyn one day, and even more alarmed that neither Natasha or Steve seem fazed by this idea.

“He’s getting his memories back,” Natasha says, squeezing the bridge of her nose after yet another shouting match between Tony and Steve, arguing over whether Bucky was still to be considered a threat or not, “the process has to be repeated for it to work, and seeing how it’s been nearly 6 months since S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA fell, he may have regained up to 80%--”

“But 80% isn’t a 100%!” Tony yells. “What’s to keep him from getting triggered by some random Russian tourist saying something that’s going to set him off on a killing rampage--”

“He was trained as an assassin, not a homicidal maniac--” Clint starts to say, but Tony scoffs.

“Yeah, cause there’s such a distinction between the two--”

“Says the man responsible for who knows how many thousands of deaths via the weapons he manufactured--”

“That’s completely different--”

“Is it? I wonder if the families in the Middle East would feel the same if you asked them--”

“Look,” Bruce finally interjects, looking remarkably calm between an irate Tony and a quietly seething Natasha, “semantics aside, we all agreed to help Steve find Bucky. And if we’re going to go back on our promise now that he might show up stateside rather than in Europe, that makes us no better than...well, HYDRA. In my opinion, anyways.”

“I agree with Dr. Banner,” Thor says, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder, “and the captain. If we turn our backs on the friend of our friend, we will become oathbreakers of the worst kind.”

“You’re outnumbered, Tony,” Rhodey says gently, “let it go.”

Tony’s mouth works wordlessly for a moment before he finally groans, running a hand over his face. “Fine. But the Tin Soldier gets a full mental eval when he does show up. On your dime, Capsicle, not Stark Industries’. I know you’re good for it.”

“Fine by me,” Steve agrees. “And I want to be notified immediately if he shows up anywhere in the city. The last thing we need is you flying down and trying to bark orders at him, Tony.”

“Is no one concerned about how he’s getting here?” Pepper adds, startling all of them, except Natasha, who likely heard her enter between one of the yelling matches. “If Bucky is coming from Germany, it’s not likely he’ll be arriving in a legal manner…”

“It’s highly likely he’ll use some of the Winter Soldier’s contacts to get a fake passport,” Natasha murmurs. “It’s what I would do.”

“Right, so keep an eye out at the airports and boat terminals, got it,” Rhodey says. “Any chance I can convince any of you to let the government in the loop?”

The varying deadpan and murderous looks in his direction has Rhodey holding up his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright, just checking.”

Everyone begins slowly dissipating after that, trickling off down to the kitchens for lunch (Rhodey, Thor, Tony, Pepper), to their respective rooms for a nap (Clint and Sam), or further down to the labs and gym (Bruce, Steve, Natasha).

Sam elbows Steve before he gets off on the 73rd floor, smirking in a way Steve’s not sure he likes. “Just because I’m going to get some rest doesn’t mean you can weasel your way out of explaining about the girl you were texting the whole flight back.”

Steve stares after him in open-mouthed horror as Sam gives him a jaunty wave as the doors close, leaving him with a slightly smiling Bruce and an unamused looking Natasha.

“Uh…” Steve starts to say, all too aware of the wry expression Nat is giving him. “It’s not what you think?”

“So I take it things are progressing with the girl you met in the coffee shop?” Bruce asks.

Two things happen at once; Steve groans good-naturedly, opening his mouth to explain to Nat about Darcy, and Natasha’s hand suddenly clamps on his wrist in a deathlike grip.

Bruce watches this exchange with a very confused expression. “Did you not tell Natasha?”

Nat’s expression is anything but amused; if anything it’s almost...afraid. Steve’s unease deepens as her grip on his wrist only tightens.

“Rogers, this is when it would have been opportune for you to _listen_ to me and read the damn file I gave you--”

“The file?” Steve asks, confused, until it dawns on him; Nat thinks the mystery girl is Betty, not Darcy. “Natasha, hold on, you’ve got it all mixed up.”

Nat looks like she’s about to strangle him but takes a calming breath, the vice-like grip on his wrist lessening. “Explain then.”

“I met Darcy,” Steve says, putting an emphasis on the name, “a couple of weeks at Bean There. She spilled coffee all over my Brooklyn Dodgers shirt. Remember when I came by for dinner and smelled like--”

“Caramel,” Natasha says, visibly relaxing. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Steve nods, still perplexed about her behavior.

Natasha offers him no explanation, merely stepping off at the first dining hall floor with a prim, “Good luck with your date, Steve.”

The doors start to slide closed and Bruce offers Steve a helpless shrug. “Any idea what that was about?”

“Not a clue.”

The doors suddenly shudder to a stop, seemingly caught on something. That something turns out to be Nat’s foot and she gives Steve her sternest look. “And Steve?”

“Yes, Natasha?”

“Read the damn file.”

And with that, the doors slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for readers both new and old: changed my mind on Betty's facecast. I rewatched The Incredible Hulk the other day and COMPLETELY fell in love with Liv Tyler's Betty, so that's who you should picture from here on in. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets a wardrobe overhaul, accidentally introduces Betty to an Avenger, and goes on his first date with Darcy ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS I'M SO SORRY. I've had this chapter in my drafts for over a year, and the muse was just gone. But it's back now, and I promise more consistent updates from now on! This isn't going to be a super long fic (I think) and I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting!!

* * *

 

In spite of getting little-to-no sleep the night before--sleeping is kind of hard to do when your phone is glued to your hand, anxiously anticipating some news about your amnesiac best friend despite the sheer unlikelihood of anything coming up--Steve all but skips the now familiar walk to Bean There. Hell, he might even be _whistling._ No amount of sleep deprivation or worry can rob him of the knowledge that he has a date tonight. A date with one of the funniest, boldest, and sarcastic women he’s ever known; frankly, he can’t believe his luck.

Bean There looks much the same as it ever does at noon on a Tuesday. The tables are mostly empty, Maria bustling away behind the counter, and Andrew is sitting at his customary table, mug of coffee in hand.

The only glaring change to the usual routine is Betty, who has her head on Andrew’s shoulder, looking as miserable as he’s ever seen her. If Steve feels sleep-deprived, Betty looks it: her hair anything but its usual polished self, her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, and she looks so forlorn in that moment that Steve feels a sudden urge to hit something or someone, preferably whoever made her feel this sad.

The door’s three bells jangle as it closes behind him, and three pairs of eyes turn his way. Maria gasps, only just barely avoiding dropping the coffee pot, while Andrew’s face splits into a nearly luminescent grin, but Betty…

Betty presses a hand to her mouth before suddenly dissolving into tears, hiding her face away in Andrew’s shoulder.

Alarmed, Steve nearly runs across the coffee shop, approaching the table just in time to see Andrew gently pat Betty’s shoulders and hear him murmur, “There, there, Betty, didn’t I tell you our Steve would be back?”

And then it dawns on him: while he may have been texting Darcy almost daily during his trip to Germany, there was one dark-haired woman he’d forgotten. Coupled with the fact that nearly all of the men in Betty’s life had a nasty habit of vanishing without a trace…

“Oh, Betty,” Steve says, panic and guilt curling hotly under his breastbone, “Betty, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot--I thought I--it was so busy--”

All of his excuses sound childish and empty, but Betty wipes weakly at her eyes regardless, clearly trying to conjure up some semblance of a smile.“No, no, I was being ridiculous,” she starts to say, clearly missing the look Andrew shoots her, “I shouldn’t have assumed, I just got so _worried_ \--”

Steve pulls her into a hug before she can say one more word. He’s never thought of Betty as anything other than strong and capable, but right now she feels as slender as a reed and he could kick himself when he feels her take a shuddering breath against his shoulder.

“I thought you’d just vanished,” she mumbles, and he hugs her tighter for that--he should have considered, he should have known where her mind would have gone if she didn’t hear from him, after everything she’s told him about her father and her mystery scientist--

“I would never,” he says, but he shouldn’t promise that. He _can’t_ promise that, not really. Not after his and Peggy’s missed dance, not after spending 70 years frozen; no, he can’t promise that.

But he can promise to not scare her like this again.

“Next time I go away, I’ll send you hourly updates,” he says, feeling the guilt lessen a little when she leans back to smile at him. Her eyes are still red, but no longer wet and she gives him a gentle squeeze.

“I will only be satisfied by a live-stream of texts documenting your every move,” Betty says.

“I’ll work on moving past using T9, then,” he says, gratified even more when she pinches him.

“T9? Does that exist on smart phones?”

“Even I know that it doesn’t,” Andrew adds, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “And now that our dear Dr. Ross’s fears about you going missing have been allayed, I suggest we all get some coffee. Not to be rude, Steven, but you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Steve hasn’t been fretted over this much in a long time and it’s nice, comforting in the way his Ma’s fussing used to be. Maria bustles over and pinches his cheek before pouring him a cup of coffee. Andrew settles in beside him with one arm around Betty’s shoulders. It’s cozy. It’s a bit like a family, he realizes, and that thought sinks down warm and heady into the pit of his stomach, better than even the fresh mug of joe in front of him.

“So,” he starts, leaning back in his chair, “what’d I miss?”

It turns out, not much of anything, other than Andrew finally agreeing to switch to decaf after much begging from Maria and Betty having apparently made friends with Darcy.

“It was such a pity you weren’t here when she came by,” Betty says, “she said she just came back for a good cup of coffee, but I doubt that very much.”

Steve scrubs the back of his neck, well aware of the redness creeping into his cheeks. “Yeah, about that.”

Andrew and Betty exchange a glance before leaning forward.

“We, uh...sorta have a date tonight,” he says. “Me and Darcy, I mean.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Andrew claps him on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, now, that’s just fine news. Don’t you think so, Betty?”

Betty’s expression is torn between amusement and irritation. “I suppose _someone_ was hearing from you while you were away, then?”

“Yeah,” he admits, feeling like the sorriest ass to ever walk the face of the planet.

She sits for a minute, arms crossed. “Hm. You realize you owe me for at least four sleepless nights, right?”

“I know,” he sighs. “And I feel terrible about it, Betty, really.”

A small grin breaks out on her face and she stands suddenly, motioning for him to join her. “I’ll consider us even if you let me take you shopping for something to wear before tonight.”

Steve blinks, perplexed. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”

He thought he’d done quite well choosing an outfit; his khakis were neatly pressed, the button-down brought out the blue in his eyes (or so Natasha had told him), and Ma had always told him to dress up for a date, not dress down. Betty, on the other hand, looks skeptical.

“Steve, honey, Darcy’s going on a date with _you_ , not an 85-year-old,” she says, and then winces slightly. “No offense, Andrew.”

“None taken, my darling,” he assures her, “and even I can acknowledge that the khaki and button-down combination is a little dated.”

Betty gives him a very _I-told-you-so_ look. Steve groans.

 

* * *

 

And that’s how he finds himself being dragged through the three nearest department stores. Betty is gentle in her suggestions--certainly gentler than Tony or Nat would have been--but still insistent on him breaking out of his comfort zone, as far as clothes go.

“I’ve known you for months and I’ve only ever seen you in the same khakis and jeans,” Betty grouses, “so either you have a very small closet or have never had a reason to own more than two pairs of pants.”

Both things were true, but Steve doesn’t want to tell her so. “Maybe I just really enjoy khakis?”

She rolls her eyes at that, thrusting a pair of black pants his way. “ _No one_ really likes khakis, Steve.”

In the end, she manages to overhaul his entire wardrobe with just a few shirts and pairs of pants (and one really, really nice pair of dress shoes that will leave his bank account stinging for more than a few days). Steve would complain but, again, like the fussing he’d received from Maria and Andrew at Bean There this morning, it’s...nice, having someone care enough to make sure he doesn’t look like the geriatric he secretly is on a date. Vaguely, a memory of Becky Barnes forcing him and Bucky into a store before their school’s big dance floats back to him.

Hell, Steve’s always wanted a sister.

 

* * *

 

He allows Betty to drag him back to his apartment to try everything on--he owes her for scaring her so badly, he knows, and it’s not like spending time with Betty is ever a burden--and is pleasantly amused by how much she loves his building.

“A real life brownstone,” she says, running her hand over the exposed brick of his living room wall. “I’m surprised there’s one of these left in Manhattan.”

“A friend of mine helped me find it,” he calls from the bedroom, in the process of pulling one of his new shirts on, “I’ve never really been a big fan of chrome and glass buildings.”

“Can’t say that surprises me,” Betty answers, laughter in her voice. “You are singularly old-fashioned, Steve.”

 _If only she knew_ , Steve thinks wryly.

A sudden knock at the door startles him. The only people who know about this place are the Avengers, Fury, and Maria Hill, none of whom he particularly wants to meet Betty. At least, not yet. Not til he’s read her file, or she finally decides to fill in the pieces about her missing scientist.

“Should I get that?” She asks.

Hurriedly buttoning the shirt, Steve maneuvers out into his living room. “Nah, I’ll get it.” He hopes his voice sounds calmer than he feels. “Feel free to grab a pop from the fridge or something, Betty.”

She gives him an arch look, suggesting he doesn’t sound as nonchalant as he’d like. “I am a little thirsty. You want one?”

He shakes his head, waiting for her to disappear around the corner before opening the door. Sam stands there, looking amused. “Didn’t take you as the kind of guy who brings a girl home on the first date, Rogers.”

Groaning, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s cause I ain’t that kind of guy. My date’s tonight, Sam, as you damn well know.”

Sam’s eyebrows arch into his hairline. “Care to explain the definitively female voice I just heard, then?”

Betty chooses that moment to reappear behind him, can of pop in hand. Sighing, and cursing the day he’d chosen to taunt Sam Wilson during their morning runs, Steve steps back to allow him to come inside. “Sam, this is Betty. Betty, Sam.”

Sam smiles, offering her his hand. “So, you’re one of the mysterious coffee-shop friends. Nice to meet you.”

Betty shoots Steve a bemused look. “I had no idea I was so interesting. Nice to meet you too, Sam.”

They shake hands, smiling at each other. As far as unexpected guests, Sam is one of the least problematic. He won’t needle Betty to try to get her to reveal her past (Natasha), he won’t declare himself a member of the Avengers and announce Steve as Captain America (Tony), and he definitely won’t commit any well-meant but awkward social gaffs (Thor, possibly Bruce).

Sam turns his attention back towards Steve, blinking as he takes him in. “New duds, man?”

Steve flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Betty’s idea.”

Sam turns back to Betty with a look of appreciation. “You must be some kind of woman if you can convince grandpa here to abandon the khakis.”

Betty’s cheeks flush a little, but she’s still smiling. “They didn’t go easily, believe me.”

“Oh, I can. Steve’s just a bit stubborn,” Sam says.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Betty agrees.

“Still right here, you know,” Steve grumbles half heartedly. He’s far too pleased that they’re getting along without his flimsy cover going up in flames to really mind their teasing.

Sam smirks, giving Steve’s shoulder a thump. “You must really like this girl if you called for reinforcements.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Betty interjects, “I appointed myself as wardrobe adviser. Steve’ll be fine. Any girl would be a fool not to be excited about going on a date with him.”

Steve can feel the embarrassed--but pleased--flush creep back up his throat. “Thanks, Betty.”

She and Sam pick up their conversation when he pads back to his bedroom to retrieve his shoes--there’s quite a bit of laughter floating down the hallway and it’s refreshing, to hear something other than the TV or the radio in the quietness of his apartment. It’s not that he’s opposed to having people over; he just usually gravitates towards the Tower, because that’s generally where everyone else ends up in their downtime. He should probably consider making the place a little more open for visitors, especially if things go well with Darcy…

But he’s getting ahead of himself, now.

“...so did you two meet in the Army?” Betty is asking when he reappears, fully dressed and trying to ignore the irrational bout of nerves he’s feeling.

“We didn’t exactly serve at the same time,” Sam answers, shooting Steve a wry glance over the top of Betty’s head, “we met in DC, actually, before the whole S.H.I.E.L.D. fiasco.”

Betty’s posture suddenly goes ramrod straight. “Y’all worked for S.H.IE.L.D.?”

Steve winces. “Not directly, no,” he says, hoping Sam will back him up in the half-lie.

Betty eyes them both, gaze lingering on his face as if she can pull the truth out of him by willpower alone. She must trust what she sees because her shoulders relax and she takes a sip of her drink. “Well, better S.H.I.E.L.D. than for my father.”

Sam’s brow furrows at that. “Who’s your dad?”

“General Thaddeus Ross,” Betty sighs. “Well, former general, I suppose. He just got elected Secretary of State.”

Not for the first time, Steve gets the sinking suspicion that he really, really needs to read that file.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Steve waves Sam and Betty off as they head out to grab some impromptu Chinese food--apparently, their apartments are only blocks from each other, and neither Steve nor Sam had wanted Betty to walk home by herself--and checks his pockets for his wallet, phone, and keys. After the third time, and feeling reasonably sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, Steve locks his door and crosses the street to the closest subway station.

There’s a text from Darcy waiting for him on his phone as he moves through the turn-stall.

_ < Leaving my humble abode now, Just Steve. Hope you’ve got your checkers’ playing pants on.> _

Chuckling slightly, he types out, **_< Dressed and ready, ma’am. Betty insisted on me abandoning my tried and true khakis.  >_ **

_ < Bless that woman ;) > _is the quick response.

Steve muffles a laugh; he’d have to thank Betty again later. **_< Be there in 20.  >_ **

 

* * *

 

Darcy’s beaten him to Bean There, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as he approaches.

“Something tells me it’s not the prospect of our checker game that’s got you so excited,” he says, gratified when her mouth turns up in a kilowatt smile.

“Oh, it’s partially that, Just Steve,” she says, slipping her arm through his like it’s the easiest thing in the world--and if his heart gives a traitorous, foolish lurch at that, he _is_ a tad jet-lagged, after all. “But I’ve also had around...six? Seven cups of coffee today. Boss Lady was in free-fall with new ideas and even sweet, sweet caffeine couldn’t help me keep up.”

He smiles down at her; she’s hardly short, Darcy, but still considerably smaller than him. “So are you going to go for round 8 or switch to something a little less...energizing?”

“I’d kill for some wine, honestly,” Darcy says, her manner frank.

He expects she’s rarely anything _but_ frank, and likes her even better for it.

“I think we can make that happen,” Steve says. She beams up at him, blue eyes crinkled in a smile and he takes a moment to curse his pale, blush-prone Irish skin for being so damn transparent.

Maria is practically _smirking_ behind the counter as they approach, and for the first time, Steve considers bringing Darcy back to Bean There may not have been the smartest idea.

“Well, don’t you two clean up nice,” Maria says, shooting him a wink.

Belatedly, Steve realizes he hasn’t even so much as acknowledged the pretty red dress she’s got on, let alone the loose curls that he knows--hey, he spent enough time with the chorus girls a lifetime ago to know the effort that goes into doing a dame’s hair--must have taken her hours to do.

“I like to think so,” Darcy answers promptly, offering Steve a cheeky look. “He’ll do, I suppose. Now that the khakis are gone.”

That startles a laugh out of him; apparently, getting rid of his usual pants had been a smarter move than he could have imagined.

Unsurprisingly, she kicks his _ass_ at checkers. Granted, he’s not playing at his best; Darcy’s laugh and the ever-so-often nudge of her foot against his under the table is more than a little distracting. They play four rounds and he loses every single one. Somehow, Steve can’t bring himself to mind. His stomach _does_ give an embarrassingly loud growl after their last game, and he can only blush in the face of Darcy’s amusement.

“Forget lunch today, Just Steve?” She asks, lips quirked up in a wry grin.

“Spent my lunch break shopping,” he admits, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Betty can be a real task-master when she puts her mind to it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me one iota,” Darcy says, “I think it’s a scientist thing. They get all single-minded and Energizer-bunny like. If we unleashed them on one real world problem, like which celebrities are in the Illuminati, they’d have that mystery solved in minutes.”

Steve chuckles, though he admittedly has no idea who--or what--the Illuminati is. “Probably for the best they focus on less substantial problems, like biochemistry and curing cancer.”

Darcy nods. “Oh, definitely. Leave the real sleuthing to those of us who aren’t interested in how many particles are in an atom, or whatever.”

Maria’s quiet cough interrupts their banter; belatedly, Steve realizes they’ve kept her open past closing time. Blushing--again--he apologizes before standing an offering Darcy his arm. “You up for some food?”

“Hm, I guess,” she teases, grinning again. “Wouldn’t want you wasting away on me, Just Steve.”

 

* * *

 

They wander the streets for a while, debating over food types--Darcy loves Thai, hates French, while Steve is partial to Italian and always finds himself sneezing through anything vaguely Indian--and finally they agree on Chinese. Belatedly, Steve thinks to worry that they might stumble upon the same place Sam and Betty had left his apartment for earlier, but he doesn’t spot either familiar face in the crowded confines of the restaurant.

“So,” Darcy says, once they’ve settled into their somewhat secluded booth, “what do you do for fun, Just Steve? Besides drink inordinate amounts of coffee and fill out t-shirts better than an Abercrombie model.”

“Hey, those guys are all show, no real strength,” Steve defends. He’d looked up the store--it’d been hard to miss, with all of those windows--and was torn between amusement and a little bit of embarrassment to being compared to the simpering, sculpted men in the advertisements.

“Yeah, yeah,” Darcy says, flapping her hand. She’s still smiling though, lip caught in her teeth. “Don’t avoid the question.”

Steve thinks for a moment; what does he do for fun? Searching for Buck is far from enjoyable, for all that it’s consumed his time lately, and while he appreciates the routine of the work-outs at the Tower, they’re hardly a day at Coney Island either. He likes his chess games with Andrew and quiet debates with Betty, but she knows that already.

What does Steve Rogers do for fun?

A memory dawns and he smiles. “Went to my first baseball game in a while a couple of weeks ago.” He admits, smiling at the thought.

Sam and Natasha had taken him--Steve wouldn’t support the Yankees, even if the Dodgers were out in Los Angeles now--to a Mets game. Sam is a rabid Washington Nationals fan, and had subsequently bitched about the inferiority of New York sports teams. Natasha had muttered about the strangeness of American sports in general, but lounged comfortably in the sun like a large, lazy cat. She’d flicked him off for the comparison while Sam had laughed himself nearly sick.

“If I’d had to pick a sport for you, I would have figured football,” Darcy says, interrupting his musing. “Most NFL coaches would salivate over your shoulder to waist ratio.”

Steve chuckles at that. “You and Betty sure do spend a lot of time talking that.”

“We’re women with eyes,” she says, nonchalant, though there’s a bit more color in her cheeks than there had been before. It compliments her, a blush, and Steve finds his fingers itching to draw her.

“Among other things,” he says, grin widening as her blush deepens.

“Dirty, Just Steve!” Darcy cries, flinging a napkin at him. “What _will_ the children say?”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on telling them,” is his quick response.

Bucky’d be shitting a brick, if he could see him. Him, Steve Rogers, actually succeeding at flirting. With a real live dame!

(There’d been Peggy, of course, but he can’t afford to think about her just now. It’s not fair to her, and certainly not fair to Darcy, either.)

Darcy, as it turns out, isn’t much of a sports girl, much to her PawPaw’s attempts to the contrary.

“He’s loved hockey since he was just a kid, but I never could see the entertainment value of a bunch of grown men sliding around on ice whacking at a puck that looks like a burnt hamburger,” she says with a shrug. “But PawPaw enjoyed it and it gave me an excuse to get out of knitting with MawMaw, so I couldn’t complain.”

“So if not hockey, what do you like?” Steve asks.

Darcy smiles, a little softer this time, boldness fading just a bit. “Would it shock you if I said I’d rather spend time at a museum than watching good-looking, sweaty men beat each other up over various sports equipment?”

“Well,” he says, smiling back at her, “only if it won’t shock you that I feel pretty similar.”

Her smile returns full force. “Which one’s your favorite?”

In Manhattan, both of them agree on the American Museum of Natural History being their favorite, but they diverge from there. Steve is more partial to art museums, Darcy to history. Once he’s gotten over the enjoyment of watching her be so excited about something she so obviously enjoys--apparently the Museum of Jewish Heritage has a few items that belonged to ancestors of hers--a sudden thought nearly knocks him out of his pleasantly smitten stupor.

Captain America can be found in a number of museums across Manhattan. More so in Brooklyn, because they loved to claim their most famous son, both before and after his return, but Manhattan’s flashier, more touristy, and he knows his face is plastered in various wings across the Met, the Museum of Modern Art, and half a dozen other places.

“Maybe next week we can check out the Guggenheim--” Darcy is saying and Steve splutters, choking on a ball of noodles that seem suddenly dry in his throat.

“Steve?” She asks, clearly concerned, and he’s too flustered to realize she’s finally dropped her customary ‘just’ in front of his name. “Are you okay?”

“N-not the Guggenheim,” he manages to stutter. Sam had been there just last week with the local retired Army crew, and had sent Steve far too many smug selfies with the enlarged black and white photos from the original 1940s newspaper clippings that someone had turned into some kind of mural. “Why not go to the one we agree on?”

Darcy blinks at him, looking slightly perplexed. “There’s a new exhibition on mummies, but I don’t think that’ll play into your artistic sensibilities--”

“Mummies are good,” Steve interrupts, cringing internally at how obviously nervous he is. “I mean, their sarcophagi are pretty much art, right?”

“Right,” she agrees, cautiously. “Any reason in particular you don’t want to visit the Guggenheim?”

“Too many circles,” he lies. “Makes me dizzy.”

“Wimp,” Darcy teases, but it’s clear she accepts his reasoning, however flimsy.

The conversation continues on, through the usual first date topics: favorite genres of music, best places for a bit of fresh air on their lunch breaks, what their guilty pleasures are--Darcy’s is her PawPaw’s favorite aged malt whiskey, Steve’s is the famous Brooklyn salt-water taffy--and the awkwardness of the museums is forgotten. They talk for so long that it takes the owner of the restaurant politely reminding them that this was _not_ an all-night establishment to send them hurrying from their booth, both red-faced and laughing all the while.

“Entirely your fault,” Darcy says, wagging a finger at him. “Most guys would have escaped via the bathroom window the minute I mentioned Jane Austen--”

“Hey, guys can like love stories, too,” Steve defends. “My Ma used to read a chapter a night to me, when I was sick.”

“Sounds like my kind of woman,” she grins, slipping her arm through his like it’s nothing.

“She was something,” Steve says, melancholy creeping into his voice. Ma woulda liked Darcy, that’s for certain, for all it matters now. It’s not as if they’ll ever get the chance to meet. Sarah Rogers has been dead since 1936, likely before Darcy’s PawPaw was even _born_. The thought is jarring and saddening, all at once.

A gentle squeeze of his arm drags him back to the present, where Darcy is looking up at him with a soft, gentle expression. “She must be proud of you.”

“I hope so,” he admits. Would she be proud? Ma had raised him to do right by others, to stick up for his principles no matter what, to remember that there was no such thing as insignificant kindness. He doubts she ever dreamed he’d be a soldier, or battle armies of aliens alongside geniuses, demi-gods, and assassins. Or that he’d have to take apart an organization that two of the people he’d loved most--Howard and Peg--had helped build.

Darcy’s hand against his cheek startles him and he forces himself to meet her eyes, blue and bright as ever. “Look, I’m no good at sappy speeches, Just Steve, but here’s what I do know: you’re a good man and a kind one, in a time that doesn’t always encourage that in people. Any mother would be proud to call you her son, even if your usual wardrobe _is_ about sixty years out of style.”

He chuckles, grateful for her humor for adding a bit of levity. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment, Miss Lewis.”

“Good,” she grins, “it is one.”

 

* * *

 

Waiting for the cab--her apartment’s too far to walk, and in the opposite direction of his, or he’d ride the subway with her--they make plans for their museum date during the next week.

“I have Thursday off,” she says. “Boss Lady’s boyfriend is finally back in town and believe me, I do _not_ need to be around during their reunion. Earplugs can only do so much.”

Steve snorts. “You live with your boss, too?”

Darcy nods. “I say ‘boss’, but she’s more of a friend, really. But I worked as her intern during my undergrad years so the name just kinda stuck.”

“So am I gonna be ‘Just Steve’ for the foreseeable future?” He teases.

The blush is back, in full force, and he’s abruptly grateful for the enhanced vision the serum has given him, for allowing him to see this, even in the low light of the street lamp. “You’re not ‘just’ anything,” she mumbles, “I’ll have to think of a new name for you.” 

Steve’s never been a big believer on kissing on a first date--what was the rush, if you really liked the dame?--but now he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. It’s as if there’s a magnetic force between Darcy’s eyes and his, and he leans down just as she reaches for him, one hand on his shoulder and the other sliding around his neck to rest lightly in his hair--

The sudden _honk_ from the cabbie startles them apart before he can kiss her, and it takes every lesson regarding proper behavior in front of ladies that Sarah Rogers ever gave him to keep him from cursing very, very loudly. Darcy, however, has no such restraint. “Dammit, dude, can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here!”

Steve can’t help but laugh at her outraged expression. “We really shouldn’t keep him waiting, he might drive off.”

“Unromantic bastard,” she grumbles, but grudgingly reaches to open the cab’s door. “I can promise you this, buddy, you’re not getting a tip!”

The man just laughs and Darcy turns back to face Steve, smiling clearly against her irritation. “So, see you next week?”

“It’s a date,” he agrees.

The smile and wink she shoots him before finally getting in the cab--after another honk from the cabbie--warms him to the backbone.

 

* * *

 

He has five texts waiting for him when he gets home, but he waits until he’s safely inside, sprawled out across his couch with a beer in hand, to read them. Snorting at the contact names that Natasha has apparently taken it on herself to alter, he begins to read.

 

 **FROM:** Bird’s the Word

_ < So, how was the date?? Please tell me you didn’t go full grandpa and not kiss the girl. > _

He sends a jumble of emojis in response, knowing Sam will understand the ‘thumbs up/smiley face/middle finger’ combo for what it is.

 

 **FROM:** Betsy Ross’s Flag Higher

_ < Your friend Sam is a sweetheart! You definitely should invite him to Bean There more; I think he and Andrew would hit it off. Oh, and keep me updated on how the non-khakis were received ;) > _

Smiling to himself, he promises Betty full details at their usual post-work tea date on Monday afternoon.

 

 **FROM:** Queen Nat

_ < Try to suppress your dorky tendencies on your date tonight, Rogers. Good luck. > _

_ < Read the goddamn file. I'm not above beating you over the head with it. > _

‘Tomorrow morning’, he promises. He’s too relaxed and pleased after his date with Darcy to begin fretting over whatever dark secret is hiding in Betty’s closet.

 

 **FROM:** Darcy Lewis

_ < Had a great time tonight :) ended up tipping the cabbie, because he said we were a cute couple ;) he was probably just grovelling, but I can hardly be mad at him for speaking the truth > _

**< Glad to assist, with both the good night and the compliment :) sleep well, Darcy  >**

_ < You too, not-just Steve ;) > _

 

Grinning like an idiot, he makes his way back to his bed.

And for the first night since he’d heard of sightings of Bucky in Germany, Steve doesn’t dream.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just as an FYI, I have minimal knowledge of the Marvel comic book universe, so it's safe to say this is purely a film-based story.


End file.
